Battlefield of the Mind
by hatman-and-robin
Summary: Someone told him once that walking with Sherlock meant seeing the battlefield. That didn't mean he expected to find them tucked away in quiet London flats. Rated T for brief strong language.


**Disclaimer: We own nothing. It all belongs to brilliant Brits.**

* * *

"Sherlock, remind me again why we're here," John asks as he dutifully follows Sherlock up the newly-painted steps of a well-kept home.

Sherlock presses the bell once then turns to look at him. "A case, John! A new case!" Sherlock beams like a child on Christmas morning.

"Wait, when were you contacted about a case?" John frowns. "Just last night you were moaning about how we haven't had a proper client in three weeks."

"Email. Received early this morning from a Mrs. Susan Temple. She says that her daughter, Emily, disappeared three days ago. Never came home from school Friday afternoon and she hasn't been heard from since."

"This doesn't sound like the sort of case we usually take. The girl's probably just run away from home."

"That's what we're here to find out."

"Still… Just your everyday, run-of-the-mill missing persons case?" John presses. There has to be something more. "Come on, Sherlock…"

Sherlock's mouth quirks and he sighs heavily. "Fine. Her father is a sergeant at Scotland Yard. Lestrade phoned me this morning encouraging me to check my email and take the case."

"And?" That couldn't be all of it.

"He said if I helped him out, he'd make sure that Anderson stayed out of my cases for a whole month."

John smiles. There it is. He opens his mouth to make a snarky comment when the front door opens, a short, bleary-eyed woman, perhaps in her mid-forties, peering around the door. She looks exhausted and a bit unsure of what to make of the two men on her doorstep.

"H-hello? Can I help you?"

"Mrs. Temple. My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my associate, Dr. John Watson. May we come in?" Sherlock is halfway through the door before he finishes the question, but Mrs. Temple shows no signs of resistance, stepping back to allow him to pass through, John at his heels.

"You're here about Emily," she says, closing the door behind them. "You're going to find her, aren't you?"

"I plan to. But first I need to know a little bit more about her."

"Of course," Mrs. Temple nods, running a hand through her slightly graying hair. "Please, come in." She shows them down a hallway into a kitchen. "Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea?"

Sherlock shakes his head, refusing to sit, but John accepts gratefully. "A cup of tea would be lovely, thanks," he smiles warmly at her. Mrs. Temple smiles back, just a bit, and begins busying herself gathering a teacup and sugar and milk. The routine task calms her as she watches Sherlock freely moving about her kitchen.

"When was the last time you saw Emily?" Sherlock asks, moving to the refrigerator to inspect the various pictures and post-its littering the front and sides.

"Friday morning. Nothing strange happened. It was just a normal day. She got up. I made breakfast for her and Stephen and they left for school. Nothing unusual."

"Who's Stephen?" John asks, hoping for clarification.

"Brother," Sherlock interjects. "Fourteen years old, if I'm not mistaken. Average student. Ninth grade. Plays cricket at school, though he much prefers video games to physical activity and academics. He and Emily are relatively close, as far as siblings go, but not as close as they once were when they were younger, due to differentiating interests and a lack of common ground, I presume."

"Right," Mrs. Temple looks at him a bit oddly before turning to give John his tea. "How did he…?"

"It's okay," John assures her, setting the teacup on the table. "He does that."

"Yes," she nods taking it all in as she sits down next to John. "I'm sorry… It's just… David said you… Mr. Holmes is the best. I can't believe you're actually here, going to help us."

"David? He your husband?"

"Yes."

"And where's he now?"

"Working. He thought it might be best if he used some of his contacts at the Yard to continue the search for Emily. He says that after the first forty-eight hours, it's nearly impossible to find someone who's gone missing. Do you think…?" her eyes well up with tears as she clears her throat. "Do you honestly think you'll be able to find her?"

"If she's out there, Sherlock will find her," John replies softly, trying his best to comfort her.

"I need to see her bedroom."

"O-of course," she murmurs, getting to her feet. "Her room's just upstairs. Right this way."

Once again, Sherlock and John follow her as she leads them further into the house, up a flight of stairs and down a hallway until they reach a closed door. Mrs. Temple stops in front of it and, taking a deep breath, opens the door for them, gesturing for them to enter. Sherlock goes first, John close behind. It's a typical teenager's room – bed, desk, dresser, television – cluttered and more on the messy side of untidy.

"Here it is," Mrs. Temple says, folding her arms over her middle. "I haven't touched anything since she left. I know you're not supposed to, just in case there's a clue or something."

"Excellent," Sherlock pulls a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket. "I'll just need to have a look around."

"By all means… Anything that will give you an idea as to where she went. This is just so unlike her – to just up and disappear. She always calls me, if she's going to be late at school or makes plans to out with friends. She's a smart girl. Plans to get her A-levels next year, you know."

"Mm," Sherlock mutters, making it sound like he's paying attention when, in all actuality, he probably has no idea what she just said. _Typical Sherlock_, John thinks, fighting the urge to smirk. _So fixated on one thing that he blocks out…_

John stops suddenly, a noise catching his attention. He stands stock still, listening. He knows that sound. Knows it all too well.

There. Again.

John's attention is drawn away by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. He hones in on it immediately, but when neither Mrs. Temple nor Sherlock reacts to it, he reasoned it must not be live gunfire. He tries to focus on the task at hand, but he cannot get the gunshots out of his mind. He has to know where they're coming from.

John discreetly steps away from the conversation, ears still trained to the sound of bullets. He follows the sound out of Emily's bedroom and back into the hallway. He waits, listening. There it is again – a spray of gunfire, automatic, large-caliber weapon. And a shout. Not a cry of pain or terror, but one of victory.

"Ha! Take that!"

John is infinitely confused as he continues down the hall towards the source of the sound. What _is _that? For a moment, he wonders if he should call out for Sherlock, but decides against it. The voice may have been real, but the gunfire is not. As far as he knows, there's no real threat, and no need to distract Sherlock from his investigation. He doesn't want to look like an idiot, but he has to know. John's ears lead him to a door, which has been left ajar. He can't see into the room, but he's sure the sound is coming from here. He listens again, waiting.

"Die, you bastard!

John starts as the sound of shots fired ricochets through the air, much louder than before, much closer, much more realistic. Before he knows what he's doing and going against everything that he knows about charging into an unknown hostile situation, John pushes the door open.

A boy, around the age of fourteen if his scraggly hair and lanky limbs are any clue, sits on an unmade bed in the dark before a medium sized television, a black gaming controller in his hand. He rapidly presses buttons and yells at the television, where his character in the game alternates between shooting others and getting shot. But that is not what John sees.

John's eyes fixate on the screen. He sees soldiers dressed in complete fatigues, armed to a tee with guns and bombs and knives, each running around a desolate town covered in blowing sand. A gun raises into the screen, cocks, and shoots in quick succession. The boy in the room laughs hysterically and almost seems to rejoice in the kill he's just completed. John purses his lips.

"War is not a joke."

The boy looks up. "Shit, were you trying to give me a heart attack!? Why don't you go creep somewhere else?"

"This game is not funny. War is not a game, every soldier you're killing has a name. A family. Don't you understand that?"

"It's just a game, old man. You wouldn't understand." The boy turns back to the game and continues to run rampant, shooting members of the other team.

John continues to watch, trying to keep his breaths measured and even. He wants to leave this room, but his feet won't let him. He can't remember how to use his knees. He watches as this boy kills soldier after soldier, and all John can think of is the names of all the men and friend he has lost to war. All he can think about is the poor army doctor who is going to have to treat all of these men, and how many of the men will not make it home to see their wives and kids and friends again. And the fact that those who do are never the same again. He can attest to that.

He can feel the tremble beginning in his hands and he knows he needs to find Sherlock. He can smell the sickening yet familiar mix of blood and sweat, and he can feel the way severed limbs felt beneath his adept fingers; sticky and slippery and rough and yet too soft. And all he wants is to hear Sherlock's voice deducing exactly where the missing girl has gone and when and why, instead of these recorded shots echoing and sounding more and more real each time. John can tell he's losing control of himself, despite all of his best efforts. His head is starting to spin and the walls around him are beginning to fade and he is afraid for a fleeting moment that he might be sick. He does not want to lose himself inside this strange house without his chair and his pillow to hold against his chest and his favorite cup filled with his favorite tea made by either his charming resident consulting sociopath or his not-housekeeper landlady. His toes curl inside his shoes and his hands continue to tremble. He knows he's going to start feeling it in his leg very soon if he does not do _something_, but he is frozen.

"Fuck you! I shot you in the shoulder, how are you not dead?!" The boy's voice rips through John's mind. He gasps, the air he's taking in somehow unable to fill his lungs. John's eyes again lock on the screen and he watches as blood splatters and a soldier falls.

John cannot breathe, he cannot think. He feels the shot reverberate through his own shoulder. He clutches it with the other hand and turns on his heel, stumbling away. He is out of the room and halfway down the hallway before his leg gives out. He lands roughly on his hip, hands clawing at the carpet, but feeling hot sand slip through his fingers instead. He can't stop his teeth from grinding, from feeling sand caked in between the crevices of them, from choking on it as it slides down his throat and catches in his lungs.

"Sherl-ock." John gasps and closes his eyes. He is sweating and sweltering under the hot Middle Eastern sun. He moans very quietly, almost to himself, hearing himself whimpering, "_Please, god, let me live. Please. God, please."_

…

Still standing in the missing girl's room, Sherlock peeks behind her drapes. Mrs. Temple looks at him a bit quizzically. A dull, heavy thump comes from the hallway and they both look up at the same time. Immediately, Sherlock leaves the room to investigate, stopping short the moment he gets into the hallway.

John lies splayed out on the floor, kneading his shoulder, shaking like a leaf, whispering something to himself. Sherlock cannot hear what he is saying until he kneels next to his flatmate, and when he finally makes it out, his skin runs cold, as if someone has dumped a bucket of ice on his bare chest.

"_Please God, let me live. Please God. Let me live." _

"John." Sherlock reaches for his good shoulder, but the other man shrinks away, pleading for Sherlock to spare his life. Sherlock bites the inside of his lip. "John, it's Sherlock. It's me. You're not in Afghanistan. You're in a hallway."

"What's wrong with him?" Mrs. Temple asks without much tact. Sherlock glares up at her as sounds of more shots echoes from the open door down the hall.

"YES! Die, you motherfucker!"

"_Language, _Stephen," Mrs. Temple shouts down the hall.

"That would be what is _wrong_ with him." Sherlock glances down at John again, who looks up with bleary recognition in his eyes.

"Sherlock?" he whispers so quietly, Sherlock is surprised he hears it.

"John, I'm here."

"Sherlock, I want to go home," he practically moans into the carpet.

"It's all right," Sherlock speaks softly, for John's ears only. "We'll go home, back to Baker Street."

"Please… please," John mutters, grasping reflexively at Sherlock's sleeve.

"I don't understand," Mrs. Temple continues to stare at the exchange that passes between the men on her floor. "What's happened to him?"

Disentangling John's fingers from his coat, Sherlock rises to his feet to tower over her. "Your son and that bloody awful game happened."

"But I… I don't understand," she shakes her head, her eyes wide in confusion as she looks from John back up at Sherlock.

"I wouldn't expect that you could," he says scathingly. "You seem to have a poor understanding of reality, Mrs. Temple, something that your son has picked up from you, no doubt."

"Excuse me?" Mrs. Temple has the sense to look offended, her face flushing an indignant shade of pink.

"I said," Sherlock continues, "neither of you seem to be able to distinguish reality from fantasy anymore."

"What are you trying to say?"

Leaving John for a moment, Sherlock steps past her to peer into the room emanating gunfire. He stares at the screen just long enough to understand what the game is about and just what John must have seen. Soldiers – dying on the battlefield, mottled with blood – real men – his comrades - surrounded by explosions and gunfire and shouts far too real to be coming from a handful of engineered pixels and expertly recorded noise.

"It's a shame really… Your son is so engrossed in his games that he is no longer fazed by the gratuitous gore he inflicts." Sherlock's brow furrows into a frown. "In an hour, he witnesses more violence than any man should ever have to face."

As if sensing the conversation is about him, the boy hollers from his bedroom over the sounds of gunfire. "Mom? What's going on?"

"Nothing, sweetheart," she shouts back, still staring at Sherlock, although a bit more uneasily than before.

"Interesting," Sherlock cocks his head and stares at her, clasping his hands behind his back. "You continue to shield him from the real world even as it's literally right outside his doorway. You don't like to associate yourself with him, evident from the way you speak to him from the hall rather than interacting with him face-to-face. You distance yourself from what really matters, Mrs. Temple. You're a stay at home mother who seems to have no real interest in her children, or her husband for that matter. And if that's the case… it's no wonder your daughter ran away."

Mrs. Temple's face slacks, her mouth gaping open like a fish's. "What…? Run…? She didn't run away. Emily wouldn't just run away… She… She… That's impossible."

"Is it?" Sherlock presses, coming to stand in front of her once more, challenging her with a glance. Under his gaze, Mrs. Temple's eyes go wide and unfocused in contemplation. He watches the idea bloom in her brain, just a bit too pleased with himself, until he feels a sharp tug on the leg of his trousers. He glances down, immediately remembering John and the state he has left him in.

"Sherlock… " John whispers. "Please, let's go home. Please."

Without another word, Sherlock reaches around John and pulls him to his feet, steadying him by wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"We're leaving," he announces, and turns to walk back down the hallway.

"What? No!" Mrs. Temple follows them, shouting at him. "You said that Emily ran away. You must know where she is? How? How!? Tell me!"

Sherlock ignores her, helping John down the stairs, never stopping as he heads towards the front door.

"Tell me right now, Mr. Holmes! Where is she? Where is she? Tell me where my daughter is! Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!"

As they reach the front door, Sherlock turns around sharply, coming face to face with Mrs. Temple. He holds her gaze for a moment before flashing her a fabulously insincere smile. "Good day, Mrs. Temple."

And with that he sweeps out the door, John in tow, letting it slam behind them.

…

They're in a cab. This is not Afghanistan, this is London. They are safe. They are heading home. They are fine.

John takes deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth as Sherlock does his best to offer comforting words. But the way that John's head rests against Sherlock's shoulder, his cheek pressed up against the heavy wool of his coat, causes Sherlock's voice to turn into a low, resonant rumble. It's soothing, even if he can't quite make out everything he's saying.

John isn't completely certain when they left the client's flat and how they found themselves in a cab, but those details aren't important right now. What is important is that he is slowly coming to himself again after his embarrassing episode in the middle of their investigation. As the overwhelming terror that paralyzed him begins to fade, John feels a hot flush of shame wash over him. For the moment, he is thankful that his face is mostly hidden from Sherlock's view. To be caught red-faced now would only add to the humiliation that he has already brought upon himself today. Acting like a child, like an invalid… collapsing in the middle of the floor like that.

"I'm… I'm sorry," he mumbles, hoping that perhaps Sherlock won't hear him.

"Stop it," Sherlock responds, missing nothing, as per usual.

"No, I… I ruined the investigation."

"Please," Sherlock sighs, "there was never any proper investigation in the first place. Can't believe it was all so simple, really."

"But you just… you just left her…" John says, details of their hasty departure starting to come back to him the more cognizant he becomes.

"Indeed I have," Sherlock asserts, his thumb grazing John's wrist, no doubt his way of subtly checking the pace of his racing pulse, which had recently begun slowing back to normal.

"You didn't even tell her where her daughter is, did you?" John realizes, sitting up a bit, hoping to catch Sherlock's eye. Sherlock remains silent, staring straight ahead. "Lestrade's not going to be happy about this."

Sherlock shrugs. "He's never happy."

"But the case…" John tries again, still confused, brain still sluggish. "The daughter…"

"She isn't the priority!" Sherlock turns to him suddenly. "You are."

John is taken aback by the abrupt change in Sherlock's tone and has to mentally tell himself not to jump or shy away from his flatmate. He opens his mouth and closes it again, twice. He doesn't know what to say. He knows that Sherlock puts nothing in front of his work. Nothing. Or at least, he thought he knew.

"No, I'm not." John says in a small voice. It is Sherlock's turn to look agape.

"Yes," He says slowly, deliberately, as if there was nothing more obvious in the world. "You are. You are more important than even the biggest case."

"Why?"

Sherlock looks at him and seems to consider for a long moment just why exactly. "Because you haven't left me."

John blinks at Sherlock and watches as his flatmate pays the cabbie and is around the back of the cab in a flash. He opens the door and Sherlock is waiting to help him out of the cheaply upholstered seat and up the steps of the flat. John resents this. He hates himself for being and feeling so weak. He reasons with himself that he should not feel this way. Why isn't he a hardened army veteran sitting on the porch of some dilapidated old house shouting at children and adults walking their dogs to get off of his lawn?

_Because,_ a small voice in his head that sounds strikingly like Sherlock whispers, _you have too big and too good of a heart. _

They reach the door and Sherlock opens it, ushering John inside.

"I'm not an invalid, you know. I can walk." John says a bit shortly.

"I know," Sherlock is quick to answer. "I just wanted to be sure. Would you like some tea?"

John watches as Sherlock hangs his own coat on the hook – _He must have picked it up as we were leaving that house – _and then as he removes his scarf and hangs his things next to John's. He sits heavily in his arm chair, deftly scooping up the Union Jack pillow and holding it to his chest.

"Why? So I can spill it all over the floor when I collapse again?" John asks bitterly.

"John…"

"What, Sherlock? You saw what happened. You practically had to carry me out of there. What does that say about me?"

"It says that you put a great deal of yourself into the war, and you haven't gotten it all back yet."

"That's pathetic."

"You are not pathetic, John Watson."

"Well it sure seems that way to me! Three years deployed and one stupid video game puts me under."

"It wasn't a-"

"Yes it was, Sherlock! It was a stupid game and I'm a stupid man for being so affected by it. I'm sorry that I ruined the case and dragged you down and I'm sorry you have to live with such a weak person."

…

Sherlock looks at John for a long moment, trying to figure out what he has done wrong. He has tried so hard to be comforting and accommodating. That isn't something he is good at, but Sherlock thinks he's done a good job today. Now, he listens to John tear himself down and thinks he is being awfully melodramatic and self-pitying. Sherlock takes a tentative breath and tries to gather his thoughts before beginning again.

"John, I don't want to hear you say that ever again."

"Why? You know it's the truth!" Sherlock waits for John to throw the pillow to the floor like a four year- old in the throes of a temper tantrum. He doesn't.

"John, you are being ridiculous," Sherlock is starting to lose his own temper. Somewhere deep down, he knows that John is only doing this because he is upset and angry, and probably all the panic has not left him yet, but he is getting frustrated. He doesn't want to take this out on John, but if John won't listen…

"Oh, so now you're agreeing with me."

"John."

"I don't want to hear it, Sherlock. You know that I'm just a sorry excuse for a flatmate. You only live with me because you felt badly. You saw through me on the first day. You knew what you were getting into. Maybe you really are insane."

Sherlock closes his eyes and turns on his heel. John is never this rude to him, or to anyone. Sherlock knows he should stay and try to calm him down, but John is having none of it. Sherlock doesn't trust himself not to say something, or throw something, or shoot a gun at the wall in frustration, so he does the only thing he can think of. He crosses the flat quickly, enters his room, and slams the door shut behind him.

…

John pulls his arms up to press his hands against his mouth and exhale through them. He can't sort his feelings out, and he feels himself slipping. Again. His breath comes short and he wishes more than anything that Sherlock was back out there, and immediately regrets being so unnecessarily harsh and rude to him. He brings his knees up so his feet are resting on the edge of the chair and moans through clenched teeth. He should have known his panic was not over. At least this time he was in his own chair to deal with it. But he would kill to be anything but alone. He wishes he had not driven Sherlock away.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and takes several deep breaths, trying to dispel the tightness in his chest and the burning of tears behind his closed eyelids. He needs to stay calm, needs to focus, needs to make this right. But all he can think about is how stupid he is, how worthless. He is so weak and so childish and so afraid, so afraid of everything all the time – afraid of cars backfiring, of stupid games with miserable sound effects, of the smell of gunpowder, of the burst of fireworks, of waking up in the dark to memories of the dead, of not being good enough, of not being fast enough, of losing men, of losing friends, of pushing away everyone who cares about him, of being lonely and lost and so, so afraid that he cannot even for one moment find the strength to go on.

With no one to see him, John cries. He puts his face in his hands and cries, deep heaving sobs. He hasn't given in to this impulse in months, not since he returned to London alone, and certainly not since he'd begun living with Sherlock. It's not very adult for a grown man to wallow in his own sadness and John knows it and hates himself a little bit more for his continued weakness, but he cannot stop. His emotions keep on winning and he's too exhausted now to even try to stop. He feels shame and anger at himself. This isn't something he wants – to be this man who collapses in stranger's houses, who hurts his friends, who cries alone – but he doesn't know how to make himself better. If he could just turn it off, he would, but he doesn't know _how._

A surge of frustration and anger swells within him and without thinking, John lets out a cry and pounds the arm of his chair with a fist. Again and again and again. On his fourth strike, a jolt of pain sears up his arm and into his shoulder. He slowly notices that his hand aches and he stops, breathless from crying and his recent sudden outburst of violence. He clenches and unclenches his fist, testing the movement in his fingers, deciding that there is no harm done, but his hand still throbbing.

"You oughtn't do that."

John jumps and gasps, his eyes flying open at the sound of the deep voice. "Jesus! Sherlock! What…?"

His flatmate stands to the side of his armchair, a cup of tea in his hand, looking down on him with a calm expression. Somehow, he must have entered the room without drawing his attention. Must have been while he was curled into himself like a child with a temper tantrum. John feels his face flush.

"You'll hurt yourself if you're not careful," Sherlock continues, unfazed. "Here," he holds out the teacup to John. "Drink this."

Bewildered, John does as he's told, carefully taking the saucer from Sherlock. "What… Why? What are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious? Bringing you tea," he says it as if it is the most normal thing in the world.

John sips at it curiously. Sherlock doesn't often make him tea. In fact, Sherlock barely makes tea for himself, usually relying on he or Mrs. Hudson to bring him some. "Yes, but… why? After I was so horrible to you."

"You were being human, John. Not horrible," Sherlock chides as he pours himself a cup of tea, taking a seat in his chair opposite John.

"I was a right prick though," John keeps his eyes on the rim of his teacup. "And I'm sorry for how I treated you. I said a lot of hurtful things and I'm sorry. I didn't mean them. I was angry at myself and I took it out on you. I had no right to… not after how you helped me today. It's just…" John sighs. "it's not easy. You're right, you know. You always are… but you're right. I'm not over the war yet. Sometimes… sometimes I see something on the news or hear something outside and I'm right back in that desert, with that gun in my hand, waiting for bullets. I can't control when it happens or where it happens and I wish it didn't… but it's my fault, Sherlock. Not yours."

"John…" Sherlock begins.

"No!" John cuts him off. Sherlock blinks in surprise, closing his mouth. He glances down at his tea, immediately schooling his expression to hide whatever emotion just flitted across his face. John immediately regrets raising his voice yet again. "Listen… I'm sorry. I really am sorry for how I behaved and I need you to know it."

"I know it."

"Do you?" John asks, sounding like a pouting child, even to his own ears. "You don't act like it."

"Because those things don't matter to me, John. I could care less whether you spill tea everywhere or have flashbacks at a client's home or throw things and yell. Those things don't matter to me… you do."

John stares at Sherlock as he continues.

"You're my closest… friend. My only friend. And you matter to me more than anything else. It's important to me that you know that."

John swallows and nods. "I do… know it. I know it."

"Good," Sherlock nods, as if that settles the matter. "And… I suppose that… well, I should… I suppose I should… what I mean to say is… Earlier, I was not… I could have handled the situation better… Slamming the door and all that and… I feel that I should… make amends for that. For my part."

"Are you _apologizing _to me?" John gapes at his flatmate in something akin to shock. He never thought he'd live to see the day.

"Don't sound so shocked," Sherlock says absently, raising his teacup to his lips. "I'm not going to repeat myself."

John ducks his face to hide the slight smirk on his face. He can feel his mood lighten a bit, the tightness in his chest dispelling. "Thank you."

Sherlock nods once and a sort of companionable silence falls over the two of them as they take their tea. John thanks whatever god might be listening that things are settling back into normal, that this… _row, _if you want to call it that, has not put a tear in their friendship. Everything is as it should be – he is here and Sherlock is here and they are having tea in 221B Baker Street.

A sudden, sharp ring interrupts their calm. Methodically, Sherlock sets his tea aside and reaches into his jacket pocket for his mobile. He frowns at screen and answers the phone.

"Ah, Lestrade... I wondered when we'd hear from you."

John glances up at Sherlock and – seeing the annoyance on his face – breaks out in a smile.

Yes, everything is just as it should be.


End file.
